


call me sweet thing

by gravitational



Series: sweet thing [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:49:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22299616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gravitational/pseuds/gravitational
Summary: A lord whose interests are too apparent goads Jaskier into action, and Geralt is only too happy to go along. After all, the White Wolf yearns for its mate.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: sweet thing [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1622704
Comments: 72
Kudos: 2294
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette, The Witcher





	call me sweet thing

**Author's Note:**

> Canon divergent from the betrothal ball.
> 
> "Heaven In Hiding" - Halsey.

Geralt is still far from certain as to why he agreed to accompany Jaskier to the betrothal banquet; after all, he isn't the one who decided to sleep with every woman he possibly could. Nonetheless, here he bloody well is, reclining against a wall with a glass of expensive but useless wine in one hand and the other deep in his pocket. It's been a while since he last wore anything apart from armor and tunics, and he isn't entirely comfortable, but, well...

Jaskier is across the room amongst the other musicians, talking and laughing just as the nobles around him. The bard is dressed in the finest blue silks, but even the extravagant clothes are not enough to detract from the beauty of his smile, so bright and open, just as always. That's something that has taken Geralt time to become accustomed to - the way his... friend... can trust so entirely in his surroundings, can be so at ease within mere seconds.

He imagines it has something to do with the fact Jaskier has grown up with human customs, with their strange little lies.

There's another thing, though... something else that is irking him... something he can only label in the most abstract of ways.

At the root of it is Jaskier's clothes.

Geralt is used to seeing him in doublets and tunics far too fancy for the open road and the grit and the grime, but even those suffice as everyday wear in civilized society. Tonight, though, Jaskier is dressed to impress, just as gloriously and flamboyantly as he could manage when hauling Geralt to a tailor to have them both refitted (evidently, Geralt needing formal attire was the perfect excuse for Jaskier to purchase an entirely new outfit, despite the witcher's persistent reminders that the cost of the finery would have more than covered several nights and baths at taverns in the future.)

That's beside the point.

The point, goddammit, is the way Geralt finds himself completely incapable of tearing his eyes away from his bard for more than a couple of minutes at a time. The room is filled with lords and ladies and knights and other such poseurs, and some are objectively more appealing than Jaskier's somewhat clumsy lines - better faces, better builds, better hair - but... Geralt finds he wants even less to do with them than usual tonight, title and prowess and refinement be damned.

He's almost certain it's the smile. It has to be the smile.

With a gruff sigh, Geralt lowers his eyes to the floor at his feet, taking yet another sip of wine and wishing, not for the first time, that it were ale he could down in one go.

-

He gets lost in the clamor then, Queen Calanthe herself drawing him into conversation - but even whilst seated at her side, his gaze remains fixated on his bard, tracking him throughout the room as he sings and twirls and plays and laughs. At least three quarters of his hearing is zeroed in upon Jaskier, eyes on the younger man's lips so he doesn't miss a single word. He isn't sure of exactly when he began to think of Jaskier as _his_ bard, but now, he finds it impossible to do anything else; the strange little man is his and his alone, snarls the wolf inside.

This is why, when he looks from the Lioness of Cintra to the corner in which Jaskier had been performing and finds him lacking, his gaze snaps from face to face, shoulders tense until he catches sight of his bard again... but this does nothing to assuage his unease, for there is another man standing in front of Jaskier, nearly herding him toward the wall, every inch of his frame predatory. As Geralt watches, something inside him roars to life.

"Excuse me, your majesty," he says aloud, and judging from the shocked looks he catches through the corners of his eyes, he's cut the queen off, but it's too late for him to care; she holds no power over him, and the man across the room is reaching for his bard's arm.

He circles the perimeter of the room within seconds, shouldering aside a young bard who's quite clearly sampled the wine and slipping up behind Jaskier, standing mere inches from the wall - he wedges his frame behind the bard, bringing them flush before the lord can herd him back any farther. He feels Jaskier go tense, feels something inside himself bristle at the fear he scents on his bard... he sets his hands on his waist, murmurs his name quick and low, and Jaskier relaxes, shifts back into his touch.

"Geralt," says the younger man in greeting, and fuck, he sounds skittish, uncertain, and Geralt's teeth ache to be buried deep in a jugular. "I was just saying I should go find you - "

Geralt squeezes his slender frame, cutting Jaskier off, and raises his gaze, fixing a pointed glare on the lord standing before them, who has at least had the common sense enough to back off a couple of steps. "Can I help you, my lord?" he asks, low, and then, lower still, into Jaskier's ear, wolf-gold eyes locked with the lord's, "Is this man bothering you, Jaskier?"

He knows he doesn't imagine the way his bard trembles.

"Bothering?" he repeats, sounding rather flustered, though there's relief in the way he shifts backward to rest against him, relief weighing heavily in his scent when Geralt breathes in. "Bothering - no, no, we were just - we were just talking - "

"I believe," the lord breaks in, sounding testy and displeased, "the bard can speak for himself, witcher," and there's a bitter edge to his tone, one that has Geralt's hackles rising.

He bares his teeth then, a mockery of a smile, and holds on tighter to his bard. _"I believe,"_ he drawls, "you are treading too close upon another's property." His voice is very nearly a growl, deep and harsh and intense. "Jaskier, my love, why don't we get you another drink?"

Jaskier is tripping over his words now, hands suspended in front of himself as though he isn't sure whether or not to rest them upon Geralt's own. "A drink sounds lovely, yes, uh, my - my love, why don't we... do... that..."

He trails off there, but it's no matter. The lord is already looking deterred - disgusted, really, as if he hadn't just been making the same moves upon Jaskier. "Well, there you have it," Geralt says, saccharine sweet, and lets his eyes flash bright as he tilts his head. "If you'll excuse us, _my lord..."_

He nudges Jaskier then, pushes his precious bard sideways toward the banquet table, and as he does so, he's shielding him with his arm, sliding one around his waist to tuck his bard close into his side. "Right," says the lord, tense and displeased, but Geralt is already steering them away.

Only when they're alongside the tables lined with food and drink does Geralt loosen his hold on Jaskier's slender frame, expecting the bard to withdraw - just a ruse, after all, a ruse to protect _his bard,_ nothing more - but no, Jaskier remains even when Geralt starts to pull away, glueing himself even more securely to his side as they slow to a halt. "Thank you," he sighs. "I mean, obviously, I've handled worse - haven't been castrated yet, have I? - but I must admit, usually it isn't the men who come to... bed me, and I'm sure he'll be frustrated all night now, and by the gods, Geralt, you may have sowed the seeds of rebellion - "

"Jaskier," he says, and the bard winds down, looking up at him. Fuck, he's beautiful like this, practically fucking nestled under Geralt's arm though he's nearly as tall as the witcher himself, eyes soft and wide... Geralt clears his throat to stifle a snarl, withdrawing entirely and leaving Jaskier to stand alone, hands fluttering for a moment before he claps them together at his front.

"Right, well... thank you, Geralt. Suppose it worked out, in the end, didn't it, me dragging you along? I'll, uh... I should... get back to my lute..." He's sidling away as he speaks, nodding toward the table occupied by the musicians and the servants, and Geralt merely grunts, turning away.

He misses the way his bard's face falls.

-

When Jaskier seeks him out next, Geralt is reclined against the wall as far from the center of the room as he can manage, eyes on the palace grounds below, cast in moonlight and shadow. It's been uneventful thus far, the princess's hand at last promised away, a new alliance forged, and, quite frankly, Geralt is growing tired.

He's been on edge all night long, every instinct screaming at him to leave, but he has to protect Jaskier, and that's what he's been doing this entire time. He managed to avoid Queen Calanthe by remaining at the perimeter of the hubbub, and so far, a pointedly blank stare has been enough to deter anyone who seems inclined to strike up a conversation with the Butcher of Blaviken.

There is, after all, only so much humanity he can tolerate before their shallow natures and incessant commotion wears away his patience.

"Geralt."

He turns.

Jaskier is standing near, and it's a bloody miracle the man had approached without Geralt at least scenting him, but Geralt has no time to reflect on the way he'd dropped his guard, for the bard, well...

His doublet is undone, fastenings hanging loose to expose the elaborate embroidery of the chemise beneath, and the hand propped on his waist serves only to push the formal silks that much farther from his chest, baring even more of the undershirt. His cheeks are ruddy with drink, but his eyes are still bright, bright ocean blue, and fuck, that smile...

Geralt swallows, turns to face him entirely, his sixth glass of the night in his hand. The wine has been doing nothing for him - the faintest of buzzes, the slightest enhancement of his senses, and nothing more. "Jaskier," he says in greeting, cocking a brow. "Have you worn out your welcome? Coaxed the wrong lady into your bed?"

"Well, I mean, there was one woman, and then the man from before, but..." Geralt's brows lift higher and he tunes out entirely as his bard rambles on, and eventually Jaskier catches on and winds down. "Yes, well... that's not why I came to you."

"Then why did you?" he asks, tilting his head to one side with the faintest of smiles. "You seem less than sober, Jaskier, I doubt you're in the position to be proposing any fantastic endeavors right now."

Jaskier sighs, and he seems to falter, going dull. "Earlier," he begins, and immediately, Geralt's own facade crumbles as nervousness rises. "Earlier, with that glorified, pompous arsehole, did you - ... you said 'my love.'"

"Did I?" Geralt asks, clearing his throat, though he remembers quite well. He takes another sip and lets his eyes stray away, though it tastes sour on his tongue now.

"Geralt," says his bard, and it's this weird blend of plaintive and impatient, and Geralt feels pinned. "You could have handled that in any number of ways, we both know you could have, even just a look from you and he would have likely been on his way, but you seemed - ... Geralt, when you held me that way - "

"Stop," Geralt interrupts, and the way Jaskier's face drops _stings,_ and, fuck... He swallows hard, looks away once more, but Jaskier steps forward, and Geralt goes rigid, because now he's the one hemmed in. "Not here," he says instead, lifting a hand halfway to keep Jaskier at bay. "Not here. Come with me."

Something almost like hope sparks in Jaskier's eyes, and something else tightens in Geralt's chest.

He nods for the bard to follow, one eye on the crowd as he circles the room once again. It's easy enough to slip away unnoticed among the dancing, past a tapestry into the servants' hallway beyond. "What is your point?" he asks as he turns back to Jaskier, his voice gruff and low. "You realize I was - "

Geralt breaks off when Jaskier's lips collide with his own.

The kiss is sloppy, and Jaskier tastes like ale and wine, and there's too much teeth right at first because Geralt is rigid and unmoving - 

and Jaskier is pushing himself closer, closer until he's flush against Geralt's chest, and, _fuck..._

Geralt wants to push him away, knows he should, for a thousand fucking reasons, but the wolf inside him is snarling at the taste of its _mate -_

and then, just as he feels Jaskier begin to draw away, go tense with doubt, he snaps.

Geralt pushes his bard back against the opposite wall, swallows his startled groan, feels Jaskier's hands rise to his shoulders as his own return to his waist. The bard is smaller, leaner, more delicate than he, built for a different type of agility - dancing, prancing, _fucking,_ something Geralt can _feel_ in the way Jaskier arches up against him without hesitation, one leg halfway rising.

He reaches to grip his thigh then, hiking Jaskier's leg up against his hip so he can press his way between the bard's own, can rock against him _hard_ and feel Jaskier moan. It's with fucking difficulty that he gains control of the kiss, coaxes Jaskier to calm, eases them into something slower, deeper, less unbridled...

He draws back to breathe soon, soothes Jaskier's immediate whimper with a purr of his name. "Jaskier," he repeats, resting his forehead against the bard's and remaining rigid until the smaller man stills, quivering where his hips are pinned. "Tell me this isn't just the wine."

In spite of it all, Jaskier laughs, breathless and beautiful, and he loops his arms around Geralt's neck, relaxing against his chest. "Do you truly think the wine is strong enough to intoxicate me past the point of nonsense? I've wanted you for - gods, Geralt, _years,_ since we met, since I saw you in that bar..."

The wolf is quiet for now. The thing welling up inside Geralt's chest is different, feral in a stranger sort of way - a way that makes him press closer, dropping Jaskier's thigh to cup his face in both hands and pull him in. Their kiss is no less deep for all that it's become gentle, filled with a sort of tenderness Geralt can't even comprehend.

"I wish I could tell you I felt the same from the beginning," he murmurs as he draws back, and it's a relief when he feels Jaskier's lips, still brushing against his own, crook up in a smile. "I think... I think I've known for a while now..."

"I don't blame you for hating me then," Jaskier replies, soft and contrite, and he's brushing his fingers through Geralt's hair now, and Geralt can't help it, he _purrs,_ nuzzling into Jaskier's throat and closing his eyes. "I guess I know I can be insufferable - "

"Jaskier," he interrupts, his voice already going raw as his bard continues to comb through his icy locks, freshly washed and brushed for the evening. "We can talk later. Now, I want - "

He breaks off with a groan that's nearly punched out of him, for Jaskier had chosen then to roll his hips, a fucking _sinful_ move that makes Geralt go rigid, his hands dropping to his waist once again. "Jaskier," he nearly gasps, his name muffled against the gloriously untouched skin of his throat, and he can feel the wolf rising once again.

"Geralt," replies Jaskier, just as easily as if they were greeting eachother in passing, but there's a laugh in his voice, one that Geralt is determined to turn into a cry. He turns his head then, brushing parted lips and bared teeth along his bard's throat, feeling his pulse jump just beneath the skin. "Is that more along the lines of what you have in mind?"

Geralt hums then, but he doesn't answer at first, far too focused on the task inside. At last satisfied, he sets his teeth to a bit of sensitive flesh just above his bard's collar, where anyone will see, and bites, _hard,_ hard enough that Jaskier jerks and _keens,_ grip in Geralt's hair tightening past the point of pain and veering straight into pleasure. _"O - oh.."_

"You're the one who came to me," Geralt reminds him as he releases his hold on the quickly-bruising skin, licking over the indentations of his teeth and reveling in the way his bard trembles. "Don't complain, sweet thing..."

The pet name rolls off his tongue before he can suppress it, and he's about to - what? Apologize? - but Jaskier is _whining,_ and Geralt knows there's no point in taking it back. "If you make me finish in this _expensive_ pair of pants, Geralt - "

He laughs against him, low and gruff, and reaches to slip a hand beneath Jaskier's chemise, feeling the muscles of his abdomen tense beneath his palm. "Shouldn't have bought them," he replies, trailing his lips lower, kissing an absentminded path down his throat. "You've looked marvelous all night, Jaskier, you don't know the things it's made me feel..."

He can practically feel Jaskier taking interest, though that interest is obviously sidetracked by the path Geralt's hand is taking, running slowly up his chest to thumb across one nipple. Jaskier shivers and whines, his hands tightening once more in Geralt's hair. "Tell me," he murmurs. "I knew you were watching me, I just thought it was - for the job..."

Geralt shakes his head, repling softly, "If you think I'm here only under the guise of work, you're wrong... I told the queen you aren't paying..."

Jaskier gives a laugh then, sounding disbelieving, but there's something almost like happiness in there, too. "Don't avoid the question," he teases, lightening his grip to comb through Geralt's hair once again. "What did you want to do to me?"

He's quiet at first, voice taken up by a low, steady purr as he melts under Jaskier's ministrations. "As beautiful as your clothing is, my love, all I've been able to envision is stripping it off of you," he murmurs at last, and he knows he's not imagining the way Jaskier trembles beneath his words. "You've looked divine tonight, performing... smiling... your _smile,_ my love, it makes me weak..."

Geralt only wishes he had stronger alcohol on which to blame his loosened tongue.

"Weak?" his bard repeats, and there's another laugh on his breath, which is quickly being stolen away, no doubt by the way his hips have settled into a subconscious rhythm of their own, rolling slowly and shallowly into Geralt's own. "Me, the traveling bard, making the great White Wolf _weak,_ I - imagine that, oh, _fuck..."_

Geralt's teeth are in his flesh once again, this time embedded into the crook of his shoulder, and Jaskier is _whining_ for him, and his hips buck then, their rhythm already gone to shit, and Geralt laughs, but it's more of a growl, and presses a thigh between his own. Jaskier shudders, his whole body trembling between Geralt and the wall, and the wolf roars once again.

"Are you going to get off riding my thigh?" he croons, his voice dark and low, and Jaskier bucks again, gasping out a moan of his name. "I haven't even properly touched you, Jaskier, you're truly this worked up...?"

"You don't know," Jaskier breathes, "how long I've waited for this... how long I've imagined what you'd feel like..."

This time, it's Geralt who shudders, and reaches for Jaskier's arms, drawing them back from where they've been haphazardly locked around his neck to pin his wrists together above his head. He pulls back, far enough to meet Jaskier's gaze - and, gods, he thinks he might burn alive. The bard's eyes are dark, lost, and he's panting already, red lips swollen and parted, kiss-bitten into tenderness. With his doublet pushed back from his chest and chemise left untucked and rumpled, he looks halfway fucked already, and if that isn't an idea...

The wolf trembles at the thought.

It takes physical effort for Geralt to remain still, to merely _look_ and not to snap, strip Jaskier bare and take him here and now, force his cock deep inside him until his bard truly sings - 

_No._

"Geralt," says his lark, and he sounds pitiful now, pleading, aching need plain in the way he arches from the wall, head thudding back. The motion bares his throat, and Geralt's eyes snap to the pale skin, littered already with teeth marks and bruises here and there.

He will look a wreck when they return to the ball.

If.

"Geralt, _please,"_ and Geralt shakes himself from his daze, growling low in response and fitting himself more closely against his bard's slender frame, thigh wedged between Jaskier's own until his knee is against the wall, and Jaskier gasps, whimpers, barely bites back a moan.

Geralt squeezes his wrists once before he lets go, and it takes a mere heartbeat for Jaskier to reach for him once again, grabbing for his shirt, wrenching him back in for a positively bruising kiss, and Geralt lets him, drops his hands to grip his waist, fingertips straying beneath the chemise and digging in, and he can already tell he'll leave bruises, even without undressing his bard...

Jaskier is rolling his hips once again, a slow and sinuous motion that has his breath catching and Geralt's pulse racing. He can feel his bard's cock against his thigh, hard and hot and heavy, no doubt uncomfortable in the tight confines of his pants, and his own is fucking _aching,_ but they don't have the time, the safety, even doing this, here, now, is risky - 

His bard sobs against him when he bites at his lower lip, sinks his teeth in and sucks, breaks away to mouth along his beautiful throat once again; his bard sobs, and lets his head fall back, and his hands tangle into Geralt's hair once more, tangle in and _pull,_ and Geralt groans against him, deep and low. "Geralt - Geralt, please - "

He reaches between them, works a hand between Jaskier and the wall to cup his ass, to guide his hips to rut down that much harder, and Jaskier's rhythm is fucked once again as he jolts and cries out, finally, _finally_ getting the right angle. Geralt is struggling to remain rigid, to let his bard enjoy the ride, and he's doing a decent fucking job of it, at least so far - 

at least until Jaskier pulls that much harder on his hair as he arches, keens, fucks against the crook of Geralt's hip with the most beautiful fucking sounds - whimpers and gasps and cries, half-formed around the shape of his name, around "wolf," around "love," around "please," and, gods save his soul, 

Geralt _can't._

He snaps then, lets the wolf overpower what few scraps of senses he'd had left, snarls at Jaskier to be fucking still, feels a sick rush of pride when his bard obeys. Jaskier is quivering, full-body shudders, as Geralt lets go of his - round and perfect and fucking edible - ass to force that hand into the back of his pants, to run his fingers down the seam until he's rubbing over his hole, rubbing and pressing down, and Jaskier - 

Jaskier is loud when he comes, loud and wrecked and wonderful, voice breaking over a cry of his witcher's name as he spills into his pants, and Geralt is certain he's never seen a more beautiful sight in his life.

He keeps his thigh pressed between Jaskier's own, draws his hand back and kisses the corner of his panting mouth, waits until his bard is pleading, "Move - move, it's too much - " to set his foot back on the ground. "Let me - you haven't gotten off, let me - "

The wolf aches for him.

The wolf aches, and Geralt is silent at first, breath just as heavy as if he'd been the one to cum riding Jaskier's thigh. It's on the tip of his tongue to agree, but the rest of him, the tiny fucking bit of him that clings to logic and reason, insists that he wait, that he get them out of this goddamn facsimile of regal camaraderie and bed Jaskier properly...

"Not here," he murmurs at last, and fuck, his own voice is wrecked, just as much as Jaskier's when he whimpers in objection. "No. I can wait."

"Geralt," his bard pleads, though there's something else in his tone, something almost like relief. It doesn't take great genius to recognize relief - Jaskier is broken even now, weak to the point that Geralt imagines he would slump to the floor if he wasn't helping to keep him upright. "I want you - "

but Geralt is already shaking his head, straightening Jaskier's clothing as best he can. "Not here," he repeats, leaning in to kiss his forehead. "Let me take you home, okay? Back to the tavern... I'll take care of you..."

It's those words that soothe his lark, make the restlessness in his eyes subside. Jaskier breathes out slowly, nods, tilts his chin up to kiss the underside of Geralt's jaw. "Okay," he murmurs, then grimaces. "Lord, I hope a quick getaway can be arranged... performing like this would, ah... not be grand..."

Despite his own discomfort, Geralt laughs then, soft and not unkind. He guides Jaskier from the wall, pulls him into his arms to let the man recover. "I was hoping to see you sing once more..."

_"Geralt."_

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Comments / criticism welcome.
> 
> <3


End file.
